


The One That Got Away

by PeppyBismilk



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Ashe/Dedue, Background Lysithea/Annette, Childhood Friends, Felix Is a Chatty Drunk, Las Vegas, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Smoking, Unresolved Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:34:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26582212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeppyBismilk/pseuds/PeppyBismilk
Summary: Felix didn’t want to go to Annette’s Las Vegas bachelorette party in the first place, but when he spies an old friend dealing blackjack, the night goes from bad to worse. Now, he has a decision to make: ignore Sylvain and regret it today or indulge him and regret it tomorrow.Or, Felix and Sylvain get hitched in Vegas.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 40
Kudos: 108
Collections: Sylvix Week 2020 Fic Collection





	1. that's what you get

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sylvix Week 2020, Day 1: Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let the record show that Felix never wanted to go to Las Vegas in the first place.

“But Felix, you promised!”

Thank goodness they aren’t on video chat. One look at Annette’s doe eyes and Felix will do anything she asks. It’s how he got into this bridesman mess in the first place.

“I was drunk off my ass and you know it.”

“But you can’t miss my bachelorette party!” Guilt stabs its way into Felix’s gut, and she twists the knife with a song:  _ “You’re my bestie-bestie-best friend, you’re true blue! My bachelorette party won’t be the same without you!” _

Damn her. 

“Fine. One drink. No karaoke. And absolutely no”—Felix shudders—“lap dances.” 

Annette’s nervous giggle sends a chill down his spine. “See, about that…”

“Sing all you want, but my terms are non-negotiable!” 

“It’s not lap dances! It’s just…” Another giggle. “Remember how the party was going to be at Crusher’s?”

Felix answers with a grunt. Mercedes picked the venue: a karaoke bar next door to a strip club. Of course the party is going to migrate, but Felix plans to be long gone by then. 

“Well, Lysithea surprised me with a huge suite in the Venitian so it looks like we’re going to Vegas instead!”

Felix almost hangs up. The Las Vegas Strip doesn’t just embody the most egregious failings of human nature—it revels in them. He’s only been there once, but he saw enough cockroaches, empty beer bottles, and drunk parents pushing baby strollers at midnight to last a lifetime.

“I changed my mind.” 

“Felix! You promised!” And they’re right back where they started. “Lysithea went to the trouble of getting you your own room and everything!” 

Felix suspects the gesture wasn’t out of respect for his modesty but rather because he and Annette went on exactly one date in college. Never mind the fact that the date had been a disaster—Lysithea hasn’t trusted Felix since she found out.

“I hate Las Vegas. You know I hate Las Vegas.”

“But I heard it’s really cleaned up its act! No more guys and dolls and organized crime and”—Annette’s voice goes high and whiny—“ _Johnny, you promised my father you were gonna marry me!_ ”

“Is that supposed to be a Jersey accent?” Felix smiles in spite of himself. Only Annette would think Las Vegas was actually like those old gangster movies. “And you know organized crime still exists, right?” 

But Annette’s still doing her shtick and every giggle chips away at his resolve, so that’s how he winds up sandwiched between Mercedes and Leonie in the backseat of Annette’s Fiat, making the four hour drive up I-15. 

It’s not all bad. The girls are singing along with the radio and no one expects Felix to join in or make conversation. Felix feels redundant, but realistically, what else would he be doing this weekend? 

Working out. Sleeping. Staring at the wall. Complaining at Dimitri. 

Surely he can sacrifice those critical activities to give his friend proper well-wishes before her wedding. Plus, the Venetian probably has a decent gym. 

One foot on the casino floor changes his mind. It’s an assault to the senses, somehow worse than he remembers: lights, sounds, smells, and so many people, coming at him from every angle. 

“Felix, drop the battle stance,” Annette says. “The guards are staring.”

“I don’t trust anyone.” Least of all the guards. “And isn’t it two o’clock in the afternoon?” It’s hard to tell without clocks or windows, and with everyone knocking back drinks like it’s happy hour. 

“Looks like beer o’clock to me!” Leonie says, swerving to hit the bar. The girls follow, but Felix holds back, arms crossed. 

“I’ve got this round,” Lysithea announces. “Order up!” She buys a beer for Leonie and three disgustingly sweet concoctions for herself, Annette, and Mercedes. “Felix?”

“Club soda.”

The drink arrives with a lime that Felix promptly discards. Lysithea slaps down a massive tip and the bartender says something flirty, eliciting a flurry of giggles from Annette. Felix rolls his eyes, but luckily they don’t hang around for long. Drinking and walking is a Las Vegas pastime, after all.

“I just know there’s a Roulette table calling my name,” says Leonie. 

Annette chugs her drink way too fast and shouts, “Put it all on black! That’s a thing people do, right?” 

“Amateurs.” Leonie smirks. “I’ll show you how to win the big bucks.”

Felix rolls his eyes. “You mean how to get suckered.”

“Aww, Felix, it’s just for fun.” Annette prods him in the ribs and he almost drops his drink. It’s easy for her to say; Lysithea is loaded enough to be a high roller. Felix doesn’t see the appeal at all—why not just burn the money? At least then there’d be a fire to look at. 

“Waste your money if you want, but don’t kid yourself. The house always wins.”

“Normally, I’d agree with Felix,” Lysithea says, and Felix is amazed she’s willing to admit that much. She pulls her wallet out of her purse and extracts a crisp one-hundred dollar bill. “But not this weekend. This weekend is all about celebrating my future wife.”

She passes the money to Annette with a soft kiss, to much cooing from Mercedes and Leonie. Even Felix has to admit they’re cute, but the fuzzy feeling dies when Annette veers off to a slot machine. 

“Ooh, sparkly!” She puts the money in, pulls the lever, and ten dollars go down the drain. “This is fun!” 

Fun? Losing a tenth of her money in a second is fun? Felix crumples his empty cup and looks around for a trash can. 

His eyes land on something far more disturbing. With bright red hair and a plastic smile, there’s no mistaking the man behind that blackjack table. 

“Sylvain?” 

“Where?” Annette pops up behind Felix, following his stare. “Oh my gosh, is that him?” 

“Annette!” Leonie cries. “Don’t abandon your machine with money in it!” 

But Annette doesn’t reply. Mercedes and Lysithea crowd around her and Felix, and now they’re all staring, but Felix is only vaguely aware. It’s been five years (not that he keeps track). Why is Sylvain working at a casino when the Gautier trust fund never runs dry?

“Who’s Sylvain?” Lysithea wonders aloud.

“The one that got away,” Annette says, like it’s some kind of romance novel. It snaps Felix out of his trance.

“It’s not like that.” He jerks out of her grip. “He’s just a guy I went to school with.”

It’s not like that either, but no one else has to know. 

Until Annette starts spilling. “Come on! You’ve known each other since you were little kids, but he never looked at you as anything more than a friend, and you never told him how you—”

“Enough!” Felix got way too talkative when he was drunk—all the more reason to avoid alcohol today. At least it’s so noisy in here there’s no way Sylvain can hear them. 

“That’s so sad,” says Mercedes. “But I’m sure he’d love to hear from an old friend. You should go talk to him!”

Felix whips around to glare at her. “Absolutely not.” 

Back in high school, Sylvain made it perfectly clear that he was only interested in Felix as a wingman. Sylvain threw himself into partying and dating, Felix threw himself into ballet, and by the time Sylvain left for college, they weren’t even friends.

Well. Felix is a principal dancer with a thriving ballet company and Sylvain is dealing cards, so there. Felix almost wants to rub it in Sylvain’s face. Almost.

At least it makes up for the fact that Sylvain looks unfairly good in the dealer’s uniform. Somehow, he’s even more handsome than he was at eighteen. The last time they saw each other.

Felix had finally gotten a moment alone with him at his graduation party, in the professional-grade kitchen the Gautiers never used. There were so many things Felix wanted to say:  _ Good luck. I’ll miss you. You’re an ass. Don’t forget me. _

“You should visit me at school,” Sylvain said first. “There were so many cute girls when I visited.”

“I’ll pass.” As if that wasn’t cold enough, Felix had added, “And don’t expect any sympathy when you catch an STD.”

And then he had cried in his car for an hour, but no one else knew about that part. 

No, there was no coming back from their last goodbye.

Suddenly, drinking sounds like a much better idea, but definitely not here.

“Aww, I’m out of money  _ and _ booze.”

Felix turns to find Annette pouting at the game and the other girls patting her back.

“Maybe we should do some sightseeing before we get too drunk to see,” says Mercedes. 

“Good idea,” Felix mutters. “I’ve had just about enough of the sights here.”

And he follows the girls through the endless casino without so much as a glance back at Sylvain in his stupid little bow tie and vest. 

“You okay?” Annette asks as they walk.

“Fine.”

But he isn’t fine until he’s on his third “free” vodka soda at a bar in the Bellagio, stabbing at the video poker screen in front of him. It’s still a bad bet, but the odds are better than anything else except blackjack, and Felix definitely isn’t going there. Who knows how many casinos Sylvain works at? He could be here right now.

Really, it’s the perfect job for him. He gets to flirt to his heart’s (and wallet’s) content, never getting too close to anyone. 

Not that Felix is much better. He has to be drunk to tell Annette anything, and she’s playing roulette with her fiancée and their friends while Felix is sulking alone at the bar. Aside from that, it’s been over a year since his last date. 

“Another vodka soda?” the huge bartender asks. 

Felix nods and tips another dollar. He doesn’t even bother fishing the lime out of this one.

“Hey, Raphael,” says a voice to his right. Felix groans. The whole bar is empty and this clown has the nerve to sit down next to him? Felix fixes his eyes on the screen, wondering how put out he has to look to drive his new neighbor off. 

“There you are!” The bartender sounds happy to see the new arrival. “The usual?”

“You know me so well.”

Felix knows that voice, but he can’t believe his ears. He glares anyway. “Did you follow me?”

One look at Sylvain and Felix knows he’s wrong. That face—eyes and mouth wide like he’s seen a ghost—is not the face of a man who was expecting to see Felix.

“Felix?” Sylvain’s face softens and Felix’s drinks catch up to him all at once. Out of his uniform and into fitted jeans and a button-down shirt, he almost looks respectable, and up close…

Fuck.

If Sylvain would just smirk or say something stupid, this tension between them would break, but he’s frozen. They both are. 

Felix never sees the attack coming. Sylavin’s close—too close, moving in, arms outstretched and—oh, he’s still warm. Big. Strong. Felix almost falls for it. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” 

“Hugging you.” Somehow, he sneaks those long arms around Felix. Felix does not return the hug. He will not enjoy this, no matter how familiar and comforting it is. But something stops him from recoiling. 

Alcohol. That’s the only explanation for why he lets Sylvain hold him so long. 

A glass clinking against the bar shakes them apart. 

“Thanks, Raphael,” says Sylvain before taking a long sip of an electric green drink that looks right up Lysithea’s alley.

Felix cocks an eyebrow. “That looks vile.”

As soon as Sylvain puts the cup down, he’s a different person, but that smirk is nostalgic and repulsive all at once. 

“I missed you, too.” Sylvain chuckles and sticks a twenty dollar bill into the machine. “So, what brings you to Sin City?”

Ugh, he would call it that. “Bachelorette party, not that it’s any of your business.”

“Really?” Sylvain’s face falters. “You’re not the groom, are you?” 

“What? No!” Why would Sylvain say that? And why did he go so pale? 

Sylvain makes a full recovery, grinning too wide before taking another drink. “Then where are the girls?”

Of course Felix read too much into his reaction. Sylvain has the same one track mind as always. 

“They’re gambling,” Felix mutters, punching the Deal button. He gets a hand of shit cards, dumps them all, and gets even shittier cards. How fitting. 

“When in Vegas…” Sylvain, of course, gets three of a kind right off the bat, then a full house on the next draw. He lets out a whoop and waves his arm. “Raphael! Another round for me and my friend, please!” 

Felix scowls. “We aren’t friends, and the drinks are free.”

“Yeah, but I’m dying to leave a big tip.” Sylvain says it with an exaggerated wink as if anyone could miss the euphemism. It flips Felix’s stomach just the same.

“Just soda for me,” he says, hoping the alcohol hasn’t already poisoned his mind. He’s close enough to count the freckles on Sylvain’s face and he almost wants to. 

Almost. 

The bartender—Raphael (Felix can’t be that drunk if he remembers)—nods, Sylvain looks at Felix, and fuck, it’s definitely too late.

“So can I give you the grand tour?” Sylvain asks. “I know my way around these parts.”

“I know.” Their drinks arrive, and Sylvain slaps down a ten dollar tip. Is he showing off? Felix of all people knows he’s rich, and he wrinkles his nose. “I saw you dealing cards at the Venetian.”

“What?” Sylvain’s brow twists in genuine hurt, or at least that’s what he wants Felix to think. “You saw me and you didn’t come say hello?”

“You were on the clock.” It’s a valid reason—just not the real one. 

“Well, you could have at least sat down for a hand or two. I’d have given you the friends-only discount.” Sylvain downs another drink and throws out another wink. Felix scowls.

“Casinos don’t give discounts.”

“True, but I’d talk you through the strategy. Show you when to double down, when to split, when to let it ride…”

“Ugh.” Felix cashes out even though he only has three dollars left. He’s heard enough. “You haven’t changed at all.”

But before he can stand, Sylvain reaches for his arm. He doesn't make contact, but the gesture stops Felix cold. Even after all these years, Felix hasn’t changed, either. 

“Come on, don’t go! I really want to catch up. Tell me about ballet! I know you still dance.”

A flash of sincerity in Sylvain’s eyes is all it takes; Felix isn’t going anywhere. “Yeah, I do.”

“I saw you dancing  _ Romeo and Juliet  _ on YouTube. You were amazing!”

It doesn’t compute. Sylvain used to go to his recitals, and he saw Felix in the Nutcracker every year back in high school, but he never expressed any real interest in ballet. 

“That redhead who danced Juliet was cute, too.”

That explains everything. At least it kills that little flutter in Felix’s chest. “Don’t get any ideas. Her fiancée’s the jealous type, and she’s here.”

“Oh, so it’s their bachelorette party!” Sylvain’s warm smile sets the butterflies off again, and Felix resists the urge to groan. “Well, I suppose there are other fish in the sea. I’m just happy you’ve got good friends to take care of you.”

Felix isn’t sure how to react. Does Sylvain worry about him? What a waste of time. “Unlike you, I can take care of myself.”

“What do you mean?” Sylvain finishes yet another drink, like he and Raphael have it down to a science. “I’ve been on my own for years.”

“Yeah, you and your trust fund.”

Sylvain shook his head, eyes shining with an unfamiliar sort of pride. Not the “I fucked the head cheerleader under the bleachers” look he used to flash in high school, but contentment. 

“My parents cut me off when I told them I was never having kids. I’m a self-made man now.”

He doesn’t even look broken up about it. The same Sylvain who was too lazy to do his homework, let alone hold down a part-time job, paying his own way? It doesn’t compute. 

Maybe he lives in a van, or crashes in whoever’s bed he warmed the night before. It’s no skin off Felix’s nose. 

“I’m sorry they cut you off,” Felix finally says, because it feels shitty to say anything else. 

Sylvain shrugs. “It was a while ago. What about you? You living on your own?”

“Yeah. Well.” Felix swallows, and he’s not sure why he hesitates. “I live with Dimitri.”

Sylvain’s eyebrows go up, just for a split-second. “Oh.” He pastes his smile back on. “Good for you two. That’s great. That’s really great.”

Oh no, he doesn’t think… “What are you—not like that!”

A genuine laugh shakes Sylvain, almost like he’s relieved, but Felix is probably just projecting. Why would Sylvain care? He never liked Felix that way, and it’s not like years apart would make him develop sudden feelings. 

Fuck. Felix is still drunk.

Sylvain asks about Dimitri and Felix fills him in, grateful for a chance to talk about someone else. From there, they get to talking about old friends, and before long it’s almost comfortable. Until...

“So tell me about these new friends of yours. I bet they’re all as cute as that redhead.”

Felix’s stomach sours. Of course Sylvain went there. He was always going to go there. 

“They’re not interested.” Or they better not be.

Sylvain pouts. “Come on, I didn’t mean it like that. But you can’t expect me to believe cute girls don’t flock to you. They always have!”

Felix has no clue what to do with that. 

“Are they all dancers?”

“No.” Felix’s lips move without consulting his brain, and they don’t stop. “Just Annette and Leonie. Annette’s fiancée is a chemist, and Mercedes is a costume designer.” Shit, he said way too much. Stupid alcohol.

“They sound cool,” Sylvain says, nodding. “And you’re not, you know, with any of them?”

If only Felix hadn’t finished his club soda, he’d dump it on Sylvain right now. He has to settle for standing up and balling his fists so tight his nails dig grooves into his palms. How could he have let this conversation go on so long? “No, I’m not. Not that it would stop you from going after them if I was. Goodbye, Sylvain.”

“Felix, wait!” Sylvain jumps out of his seat without even cashing out his machine. “Please don’t go. I’m not asking—do you want to go to a party with me?”

Felix frowns in confusion. “What?”

“There’s a pool party at the Mirage, it runs all night. Great music, cold drinks, hot bodies—you’ll fit right in!” Sylvain smooths his hair and pulls at his collar. He’s either lying, nervous, or both.

“I’m here with my friends, and I’m not abandoning them for you.” 

“Where are they, Felix?” Sylvain stretches his arms out, palms up. “You’ve spent the past hour talking to me.”

He has a point, but Felix doesn’t concede it. 

“And what, you’re here for the weekend, then you go back to LA and we never see each other again?”

That’s what Felix was counting on, but it sounds hollow when Sylvain says it. Felix can’t believe he’s falling for this act. He should go back to his room, or fly back to LA right now, but he doesn’t move.

“Bring your friends,” Sylvain goes on. His voice is so soft it’s hard to hear over the slot machines. “What have you got to lose?”

A vision hits Felix then, so clear his knees almost give out: Sylvain in a swimsuit, smiling brighter than the desert sun. He’s built under that shirt, Felix can tell, and it’s so fucking shallow, but…

“Fine.” He crosses his arms. “I’ll ask them, and if they want to go, we’ll go.”

Sylvain smiles, because he gets everything he wants. “Good. Great! Let me give you my number.”

And like the sucker he is, Felix pulls out his phone. The moment it leaves his hands, he remembers that Sylvain’s number is already in there. “Wait, don’t—”

But it’s too late. Sylvain’s thumbs stop. He blinks a couple times. “I’m...already in here.”

Felix snatches his phone back, palms so sweaty he almost drops it. “I never deleted you. It’s not a big deal.”

Sylvain just stares at him. “So you still have the same number?” 

“It’s a pain to change it.” Felix’s heart won’t stop pounding, but Sylvain grabs his own phone, cool as can be, and holds it up. 

Felix’s name lights up the screen, with an ancient picture of him in a school dance team jacket. It cracks his chest wide open. 

“I’ve still got you, too.”

Felix can’t handle that tone and that smile. He needs to go punch a wall or dance until his toes bleed. 

Or find his friends, change into his swimsuit, and party with Sylvain like it’s their last night on earth. 

He’ll figure it out on the way. 

“Let’s meet in a couple hours!” Sylvain calls as Felix heads for the roulette tables.

Of course, Annette is all over it. 

“A pool party?” She clasps Lysithea’s hands. “Can we? Can we please?” 

Lysithea squints at Felix. “How exactly did you come by this invitation?” 

“It’s not important.” Felix crosses his arms. They’ll find out eventually. 

“There’s no need to worry,” Mercedes says. “It’s a party at the Mirage, not some back alley club. I’m sure anyone can get in for a cover charge.” 

At least Leonie’s excited. “Oh, I think I saw an ad for it. They have beach volleyball!” 

Lysithea lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. Majority rules.”

“Bikinis on, ladies!” Annette squeals. “And Felix!” 

On the way back to the hotel, she tries to grill him about where he was, but Felix keeps his mouth shut.

Too bad he can’t do the same with his brain. Sylvain still has his number, and he has Sylvain’s. Maybe it’s just laziness; it’s not like Felix thinks about Sylvain daily or even weekly. It’s just that deleting it feels so final, and if today has proven anything, this asymmetrical thing between them is not over. 

How could it be? They never got any closure. Maybe Felix can get some tonight. 

Walking back to the Venetian takes almost an hour, because getting from Point A to Point B in Las Vegas involves footbridges, connectors, and twisted paths to make sure tourists spend as much time in front of blaring, blinding slot machines as possible.

The girls seem excited by the time they get to the hotel elevators, but Felix’s stomach just keeps sinking. He should just send them and stay behind. They’re the ones Sylvain really wants to see. But something—Sylvain’s smile, his soft voice, his warm embrace—won’t leave Felix alone.

It’s a long ride up to the Chairman Suite, and Felix’s phone vibrates the moment they exit the elevator. 

All of the blood in Felix's body rushes south.

“Holy shit!” Annette bursts out.

Felix locks his screen in record time, but the damage is done. What he saw is seared into his brain: Sylvain, practically naked and smirking at the camera like he’s getting paid for it. His abs rival a dancer’s, zipping down his stomach like moguls on a ski slope and into a trail of red hair that tapers off to…

The edge of Felix’s screen. Fuck.

“So  _ that’s  _ what you were doing!” Annette says, and to Felix’s humiliation, their friends gather around him. 

“What is it?” Lysithea cranes her neck even though there’s nothing to see anymore.

“Sylvain sent him a nude!” 

Felix’s nostrils flare. “Annette! Why would you tell her that?”

“Married couples don’t keep secrets,” Lysithea says, jumping in an attempt to grab Felix’s phone. 

“Good thing I’m not marrying you,” he snaps. It’s not hard to keep it out of her reach, but it’s critical, because he’s pretty sure she knows his passcode. 

“Oh my gosh, Felix!” Annette grabs his arm. “Did Sylvain invite you to the party?”

“No!” 

No one buys it, and even though they’re just going to a stupid fake beach, Mercedes insists on combing and restyling his hair, and Annette makes him brush his teeth.

He sneaks another look at the picture in the bathroom and uses mouthwash, too. Did Sylvain send it to the wrong number? There’s no “oops wrong text” message. Maybe this is one of those things that happens and stays in Vegas.

No. He can’t let himself get his hopes up. There has to be a logical explanation, like Sylvain is some sort of club promoter on the side and he’s just using Felix to get to his attractive female friends. 

If that’s the case, Felix can still take him in a fight (even with those abs).

He pulls on a hoodie over his swim trunks and tank top, and when he rejoins the girls, they’re raiding the bar. 

Mercedes promptly unzips his hoodie. “You should send him a nude, too.”

“Ooh, Mercie, you’re so smart!” Annette yanks Felix’s tank up to expose his abdomen. “You’ve got the goodies! Invite Sylvain to the bake sale.”

Felix bats them away. “Hands off me, both of you!” Sylvain can see his body in the pool if he wants to, from a safe distance, because that photo has to be a mistake. 

His phone vibrates again and Felix checks it on instinct.

_ What, no reaction? ☹️  _

Felix doesn’t have a reaction for that text, either.

“What is it?” Annette shakes his arm. “A dick pic?”

“God, no.” Heat rushes Felix’s cheeks and he shoves his phone into his pocket, grabs the vodka out of Leonie’s hands, and takes a double shot straight from the bottle.

A dick pic would be better because then Felix could convince himself they were both mistakes, but this? This is Sylvain trying to get a rise out of him, just like old times. Flirting and never delivering. 

He has half a mind not to go at all, but…

Felix catches a glimpse of himself in a mirror. He really filled in after high school, and he has to admit that Annette is right: he does have the “goodies.” He has muscles Sylvain’s never seen before, and there’s no harm in showing them off. 

_ When in Vegas… _ echoes through his head. If it blows up in his face, then he goes home, back to pretending Sylvain doesn’t exist. He pulls up his shirt and snaps a picture before he can think better of it. 

The girls wolf-whistle and holler nonsense like, “Go get it, Felix!” and Felix pushes the regret down deep with another shot. He barely feels the nerves when his phone buzzes again, twice in quick succession. 

_ Damn, Felix!  
_ _ See you soon 👅 _

Sylvain definitely doesn’t mean it, but regret is for tomorrow morning.

Tonight, Felix is going to live like it’s his last night with Sylvain. 

Things get a bit blurry from there: more vodka goes down and Sylvain is hot and waiting, swimsuit hanging so low he’s one desert breeze away from mooning the entire party. 

He looks each lady up and down and slurs something about  _ Felix’s gorgeous friends,  _ and somehow ends up dancing with Mercedes. 

Felix resists kicking a wall and sandwiches himself between Annette and Lysithea instead, dancing like he’s never even heard of ballet. 

The beats spin dirty and the earth’s axis tilts, then Felix is grinding against Sylvain, body to body with only sweat and sand and paper thin swimsuits between them. No thinking, no talking, just dancing. Felix can do that, and Felix can lift his ankle over Sylvain’s shoulder, too, and then they’re drinking and kissing and dancing and drinking and leaving, together...

And when it’s all over, Felix blinks himself back into existence in his room in Lysithea’s ridiculous suite. His head weighs as much as the giant bed he’s stuck in. Stuck, as in he literally can’t move because there’s something on top of him.

Maybe it’s sleep paralysis. He hasn’t had it since he was a kid, but he lost count of how many drinks he’d knocked back at the beach party last night so hallucinating is not out of the question.

That’s the only explanation for the red something in his face, like a cat the color of Sylvain’s hair.

The name hits his brain like a sucker punch. Last night got totally out of control. Felix remembers a lot of dry humping and kissing, but the nausea cancels out any pleasant memories.

Besides, none of it was real. Sylvain was probably so drunk he thought Felix was a girl, and as soon as Felix can move, he’s going to block and delete—

“Ugh…” 

Cold fear drenches Felix’s spine. That was not his own voice. Did he get so drunk he brought some Sylvain lookalike back to his hotel last night? Perfect. Humiliation on top of regret. 

At least it explains the solid mass on top of him. Felix summons all of his energy and tries to dislodge his guest. 

“Hey, stop, I was comfy…” the guy mumbles. 

Fuck. It’s not a lookalike—it’s worse. Way worse.

“Sylvain?” Felix croaks it like a frog. 

“...Felix?”

Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit. Did Felix really have drunken sex with his former friend, the guy he had...thoughts about back in high school? 

Felix’s ass feels normal, but there’s a non-zero chance they at least fooled around. He squeezes his eyes shut. How could he have been so weak?

“Fucking Las Vegas…” Fucking bachelorette party, fucking vodka, motherfucking Sylvain Jose Gautier…

“Could you keep it down?” Sylvain groans. “My head is killing me.”

“Good.” Sylvain deserves the headache. Felix shoves him off, but he can’t even savor Sylvain’s yelp because of the pounding in his own head. It’s way too bright without Sylvain’s hair blocking the light, ao Felix covers his eyes with his hand. Something cold and hard brushes his nose.

He opens his eyes. It’s shiny. It’s gold. It can’t be. “What the hell is on my hand?” 

Sylvain grumbles something unintelligible, then, “I’m sorry if it’s come. I really don’t remember what we did last night.”

“It’s not fucking come!” Panic dulls the hangover and Felix extends his arm until his hand comes into focus. His left hand. Gold glints in the sunlight, so fucking sparkly he has to close his eyes again because this is a nightmare. “Wake the fuck up and tell me what’s on my fucking hand, Sylvain!” 

Sylvain takes his hand with sluggish, shaking fingers, and when Felix manages to open his eyes, something gold on Sylvain’s left hand catches the light, too. 

His has diamonds. 

“Well, shit.”

Sylvain doesn’t have to say anything else, because even through the fog of the worst hangover of Felix’s life, there’s no mistaking it.

Those are wedding rings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just can't resist this trope.


	2. think we kissed but i forgot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix and Sylvain get a taste of married life as they pick up the pieces from the night before.

One glimpse of Sylvain’s hairy white ass is enough to render Felix stone cold sober. It’s probably a nice ass, objectively, but Felix can’t appreciate it when he and Sylvain are both naked except for their  _ wedding rings. _

“Put some clothes on,” he snarls. To his surprise, Sylvain actually hurries out of bed toward a pile of clothes on the floor. That’s one problem solved. Felix wraps the bedsheets, already pulled loose by goddess knows what they got up to last night, around his body and tries to think. 

So they’re wearing rings. That doesn’t mean they’re married. Sylvain has always been the type to joke around, and contrary to popular belief, Felix can cut loose once he gets some alcohol in his system. That has to be it. They probably won some money last night and bought each other rings as a gag. He starts to say so when Sylvain turns around and serves him an eyeful of blazing red bush. 

“What the—I told you to get dressed!”

Instead of his clothes, Sylvain’s holding a pack of cigarettes, hands shaking as he slides one out and lights it. “In a minute!” he snaps before raising it to his lips.

“This is a non-smoking room!”

Sylvain takes a drag and closes his eyes in nicotine bliss. “Look around, Felix! You could kill somebody in here and no one would care.” 

“Don’t tempt me,” Felix mutters. “Besides, smoking is disgusting.”

That’s only half true. Felix hasn’t smoked in years himself—it’s not a sustainable habit for his profession, despite the whole appetite suppression thing—but he still remembers how good it feels, and that’s the only explanation why Sylvain looks so damn enticing blowing smoke into the air. 

“I’m just trying to clear my head.” Sylvain’s voice sounds lower now, raspier. Somewhere between nails on a chalkboard and nails down Felix’s back. He makes a mental note to check for marks later and Sylvain goes on, “Gotta be at my best for my new husband, you know?”

“Give it up, Sylvain.” Felix keeps his eyes trained on the cigarette lest he look any lower. “I know we aren’t really married. There are laws to prevent people doing stupid things like this. Waiting periods.”

“Not in Vegas there aren’t.” Sylvain grabs something—an envelope—off the desk with his free hand and tosses it onto the bed. Embossed gold letters on the front spell _Marriage Certificate_ , and it looks way too convincing to be fake. Felix opens the envelope. 

Bile and brimstone stomp down any obscenities Felix might have shouted. Suddenly, the ring—why is he still wearing the ring?—feels like a tourniquet around his finger. 

Shades of memories, blurred and liquor-dulled, bob in his mind: a dressing room, a pale blue tie, a tiny white chapel,  _ til death do us part. _

“Who the hell is Ashe Ubert?” 

Sylvain poses that rhetorical question while leaning over the bed, right on top of Felix. Deja vu. Felix’s stomach lurches like he’s drunk all over again. He can’t hold the paper steady for shaking so hard, so he drops it and calms himself down the only way he can: he grabs the cigarette right out of Sylvain’s hand. 

His first smoke in three years is just as sweet as he remembers. Why did he quit again?

“You know, in some cultures they call that an indirect kiss,” Sylvain says. His voice is smooth as silk but it turns the smoke sour.

Lungs suddenly too small, Felix coughs and shoves Sylvain away. “Why are you still naked? At least point your dick somewhere else!”

“I’m not even hard!” But Sylvain bends down to grab his underwear—red boxer briefs, Felix notes before he looks away—and when he sits down next to Felix, he’s wearing them. “Better?”

Felix blows smoke in his face instead of answering. Even with the sheet in his lap, he feels exposed, but he buries his nerves and taps the marriage certificates. “I don’t believe this. What the hell did we do last night?”

“Well,” Sylvain says, an obnoxiously flirty look on his face, “the last thing I remember is us shopping for suits and squeezing into a very cozy fitting room.”

Oh. So that’s why Felix remembers a changing room. One hazy memory gets a little sharper—his hand down the front of those red boxer briefs and Sylvain’s mouth hot on his neck. He tries to take another drag to stop himself from blushing but Sylvain plucks the cigarette from his fingers and holds it between their faces. Hovering in Felix’s space, Sylvain murmurs, “These things’ll kill you, you know.” 

Felix’s breath catches in his throat, but he recovers. “I wouldn’t even be smoking if it weren’t for you and this stupid hangover. I haven’t had that much to drink in...” He snatches the cigarette back and tries to recall how many he had last night, but he loses count at double digits. “Never.”

“Me neither,” says Sylvain, eyes flicking downward. “Uh, Felix, you have some glitter in your pubes…” 

Felix looks down in horror. Glitter is the least of his worries—the sheet slipped off and he’s totally naked. “Stop looking at me!” he yells, even though Sylvain isn’t looking anymore. At least Felix’s clothes aren’t far; they’re right by the edge of the bed. 

“There’s no need to be ashamed.” Sylvain laughs. “We’re married!”

“Would you stop saying that?” Felix whips his pants (they’re suit pants, another reminder that this nightmare is real) at Sylvain before pulling his own underwear on. 

“I was just kidding!” Sylvain catches the projectile pants, folds them on his lap, and sighs. “Well, sort of kidding. Not about the married part.”

Felix has nothing to say to that. He yanks at the gold band on his ring finger, but it’s stuck on his knuckle. Of course. Not only does alcohol fuck with his judgement but it makes him retain water. Twisting the ring doesn’t help. What else could he try? Hand lotion, maybe soapy water, call room service for some butter… 

How did they even get it on in the first place? Pieces of something, memory or fantasy, flash through his mind: Sylvain, gazing deeply into his eyes as he slid the ring onto his finger, promising forever. 

What a joke. Felix can’t even remember his own wedding. “We’ll get an annulment,” he announces, still tugging on his ring. 

Sylvain laughs humorlessly. “I’m not an expert, but I’m pretty sure ‘we were really drunk’ is not grounds for an annulment.” 

“Then we’ll get a divorce!” And Felix will cut his finger off if he has to.

Before Sylvain can respond, a phone rings, muffled like it’s under something soft. Felix’s phone is always on silent so it has to be Sylvain’s, but he’s just letting it ring. 

“Aren’t you going to get that?”

“It’s not mine,” Sylvain says. “I always leave my phone on vibrate.”

“So do I.”

They look at each other and wordlessly, they both get up and start looking for the phone. It’s easier to focus on a task, and Felix’s heartbeat slows to normal as he checks under the pillows and blankets. 

“Gotcha,” says Sylvain, pulling an unfamiliar phone out from between the couch cushions just in time for it to stop ringing. “Shit.”

The phone locks. One missed call notification obscures a photo of celebrity chef Dedue Molinaro (Felix only recognizes him because Dimitri’s a fan). Come to think of it, isn’t Dedue’s restaurant in Las Vegas?

“Whoa. You don’t think this is his phone, do you?” Sylvain’s eyes sparkle obnoxiously when he asks. “Like maybe he stayed in this room last and—”

“Ugh, you would think someone would use their own picture for their lock screen,” Felix mutters. “Plus, the battery would have died by now.”

Sylvain brings the phone closer to his face, then frowns. “Wait. That’s my number.” It starts ringing again, in his face this time, and he almost drops it trying to answer. He puts the phone on speaker. “Hello?”

“Sylvain?” The voice doesn’t sound familiar, and from the look on Sylvain’s face, he doesn’t recognize it either. “I hope I didn’t wake you and Felix up. It’s Ashe, from last night.”

Ashe. Ashe Ubert. Sylvain’s eyes go wide, too. “What’s going on?”

“I think we switched phones by mistake. I realized it when I got home last night but I didn’t want to bother you on your wedding night.”

Their wedding night. Guilt and unease come barreling back because Felix still has no idea what happened, like whether or not they ( _ugh_ ) consummated their marriage. He makes a mental note to look for condoms in the room and get tested as soon as possible. Who knows what venereal diseases Sylvain has?

And even though he’s been over Sylvain for years, a tiny part of Felix thinks that if they did have sex, he’d want to remember it. 

“But,” Ashe chirps, “I also wanted to let you know I did what you asked me to! The wedding picture went to the Review-Journal in time to print today.”

“Wedding picture?” Felix and Sylvain say it at once. 

“For the newspaper announcement. It came out quite cute! All of your pictures did. I’ll need some time to do the editing on the others, of course, but I know how important it was to both of you that the announcement went up as soon as possible.” 

Fuck. Felix puts the cigarette out on the glass-topped nightstand and dashes for his pants. His phone is right where it should be, in the pocket, and he runs a search for Las Vegas newspapers. The first result that pops up is the Review-Journal—that’s the one Ashe mentioned.

“Whoa, whoa,” Sylvain says, rubbing his temples. “We asked you to put it in the newspaper?”

“Did you forget? You must have celebrated a lot after the wedding.”

Felix tastes bile as he navigates through the ads to the right section. There they are, in the same suits that now litter the floor, nose to nose and smiling at each other like utter idiots with their hands clasped between their chests. Sylvain isn’t wearing his lecherous smile and Felix isn’t grimacing or embarrassed. They look smitten. They look ridiculous, almost as ridiculous as the text. 

_ Love is a journey, and from the moment childhood friends Felix Hugo Fraldarius, ballet dancer of Los Angeles, California, and Sylvain Jose Gautier, table games dealer of Las Vegas, Nevada, found their way back to each other, they knew their destinies were forever intertwined. On the fateful day of July 19, 2019, they were married in an intimate ceremony _

“Who the hell wrote this?” Felix demands.

“You wrote it together, remember?” Ashe sounds a little concerned now. “Right in the bar where you hired me.”

Felix glares at Sylvain and Sylvain gulps. “Hired you?” 

“To take your wedding pictures. I’ll admit, it’s the strangest way I’ve ever gotten a gig, but you were so happy and in love, I just couldn’t say no.” 

What the hell? Felix feels lightheaded. He falls onto the bed at the same time Sylvain drops down on the couch. “Right. Of course. I guess it just hasn’t sunk in yet.”

“I know what you mean!” says Ashe, missing Sylvain’s meaning entirely. “Sometimes I still can’t believe how lucky I am to be with my husband and we’ve been married for two years. Which brings me back to the reason I’m calling. I know it’s the day after your wedding, so no rush, but if you can tear yourselves out of bed, can you come to my husband’s restaurant so we can trade our phones back?”

Oh, goddess, he thinks they can’t keep their hands off each other. Felix curls his lip in disgust. Then again, from the looks of the photo in the newspaper, they couldn’t last night. 

Ashe interprets their silence all wrong. “I know I’m asking a lot, but would it change your minds if my husband made you a wedding brunch? I told him all about you two and he thought your story was so romantic.”

“Wait.” Sylvain blinks. “Is your husband…”

The smile in Ashe’s voice is obvious. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to wait in line or anything. The restaurant isn’t open to the public until 4:30, but Dedue wants to do this just for you.”

Dedue. Ashe Ubert is married to Dedue Molinaro. Under any other circumstances this would be amusing and Felix would call Dimitri to gloat, but he’s not about to tell Dimitri what happened. 

“And I can show you some proofs of your photos! I just really need my phone back in case another client calls, and I’m sure you want yours back, too. Your father has been calling all morning, Sylvain, I’m sure to congratulate you.”

At that, Sylvain’s face goes pale. “Um, sure. We can meet you at Globemallow.”

They pick a time, and Sylvain hangs up. He stares at Ashe’s phone and Felix stares at the announcement. He hasn’t let his screen go black. 

“So.” Sylvain breaks the silence. “Can I see it?”

Felix grunts but he chucks his phone at the couch. Sylvain barely manages to catch it (still pretty impressive if he’s as hungover as Felix) and his eyebrows go up. “Wow. Who is this happy couple?”

“Not us,” Felix scoffs. “At least no one reads newspapers anymore.”

“Maybe not, but it doesn’t bode well for annulment.” Sylvain sighs. “What did we know last night that we don’t know now?”

“Intoxication,” Felix supplies. He runs a hand through his stringy, oily hair, trying not to think about what he did to work up a sweat last night. Stiffly, he stands and swipes some clothes from his suitcase. “I’m going to go shower. Don’t even think about coming into the bathroom, and don’t you dare snoop on my phone.”

Sylvain looks at him but his eyes are still far off. He says nothing as he tosses Felix’s phone onto the bed. The screen was already black. 

It’s not until the luxurious dual shower heads are rinsing the stench of Las Vegas down the drain that Felix realizes Sylvain is probably upset about his father calling. Before they got drunk, he mentioned something about his parents cutting him off, and they never got along well at the best of times. 

How long has Sylvain been on his own? Felix doesn’t rely on his dad anymore, but even though they haven’t seen eye to eye since Glenn died, he’d be there if Felix needed him.

He’s drying himself off on one of the ridiculously fluffy towels when Sylvain calls out, “None of your clothes fit me!”

Felix blinks. “What the fuck are you doing to my clothes?” He ties the towel around his waist and storms back to the bedroom to find Sylvain practically busting out of one of his black t-shirts. He can’t even get Felix’s pants over his thighs. 

“You’re going to stretch it out!” Felix yells. But Sylvain isn’t listening—he’s just staring at Felix’s bare chest, which is still dripping wet. Felix has half a mind to slap him. “Eyes up here, Sylvain.” 

“Right.” Sylvain drags his gaze up like it’s painful. “Sorry, it’s just that I only have my, err, wedding suit, and I can’t exactly wear that to brunch.”

Felix crosses his arms. Not because he’s self-conscious about being half-naked, but because he’s angry. And not because Sylvain’s muscles look huge right now. “Whatever. Just put your suit pants on so we can go.”

And with that, Felix heads back to the bathroom to get dressed. Maybe Ashe’s pictures will shed some more light on last night. He towels off his hair and sweeps it up. 

He doesn’t offer the shower to Sylvain, but somehow, Sylvain looks fresh as a daisy anyway. He’s too handsome in all black, like the shirt was always supposed to be that tight. Smiling, he offered Felix his arm. “Ready, Mr. Gauti—”

“Don’t say it.” 

“You’re right. I’d definitely take your name.”

“ _Sylvain_.”

“Kidding.”

They head out in silence, and luckily Annette and Felix’s other friends don’t seem to be awake yet. A cold chill drips down Felix’s spine. Do they know?

“As soon as the courts open, we’ll petition for a divorce,” Sylvain says in the elevator, as if he can read Felix’s mind. Felix avoids meeting his eyes in the mirrored walls. 

Right. It’s the weekend. Felix is supposed to be back in LA on Monday. Does he have to appear in court in person or can Sylvain just mail the forms to Felix? Assuming he can trust Sylvain to handle it.

“Do you, uh, know how much a divorce costs, by any chance?” Sylvain asks after a moment. 

“Why?” 

Sylvain shoved his hands in his pockets. “Just curious.”

Felix narrows his eyes. “Are you broke? Because we aren’t splitting assets or anything.”

“Of course not!” Sylvain’s shock looks genuine. “That’s not what I meant at all. I don’t want your money.”

“Good, because I don’t have any. Lysithea payed for that suite.” But the truth is Felix has no idea how much it costs to get divorce. He didn’t realize it cost money at all, but that’s stupid: legal fees, burocracy, and all that other stuff doesn’t come for free. 

“Think Lysithea will pay for our divorce?”

Felix answers him with a glare. 

“Kidding. I don’t even know who Lysithea is.”

“Seriously?” Felix wonders aloud. Sylvain shakes his head. “My friend? One of the brides to be? You hit on her last night when you were totally sober.”

“I hit on a lot of girls.”

Okay, it’s time to swear off alcohol. Or maybe swear off romance entirely. Even drunk, Felix should have known better than to marry this absolute clown. 

“The small, angry one with the long white hair,” he mutters. Lysithea would kill him for describing her that way.

“Oh, her!” Sylvain smirks and stretches his arms over his head. “She was kind of angry, huh? Guess I have a type.”

The doors open and Felix charges ahead. He is neither small nor angry, or at least he wasn’t a minute ago. 

“Wait, Felix!” 

Felix doesn’t wait. It’s early enough that there’s room to move through the casino (but people are still drinking), and he takes advantage of the space to put some distance between himself and Sylvain.

“Felix! Hey! Can we at least stop for coffee? I’m dead on my feet here.” 

When Felix whirls around to face him, Sylvain looks pathetically out of shape. It figures; he always coasted on his high metabolism in high school, and now he smokes. “We can get coffee at the restaurant.”

“But that’s clear across The Strip!” Sylvain protests. “I won’t make it.”

Maybe it’s his pitiful face or the way he’s panting for air, but Felix relents and they end up in line at Starbucks. Sylvain orders black coffee and turns to Felix. “Anything for you?”

“Same,” Felix mutters without thinking. 

“One for my husband, too.”

“Seriously?”

“Just testing it out,” Sylvain says as he hands over his card to pay the outrageous hotel markup on already overpriced coffee. Felix has half a mind to slap him, but the clerk cuts him offs 

“Uh, it says here your card is denied.”

Sylvain pulls a face. “Oops. Uh, I don’t suppose you’d spot me, Felix? You know, as a wedding present?”

And even though he didn’t want coffee, Felix pays just to shut Sylvain up and get out of there. Thankfully, his card works fine. 

“Thanks,” says Sylvain. “Don’t know what happened with my card.”

Felix takes a drink of bitter coffee and his ring catches the light just above the cup. His stomach sinks. Rings cost money. “I have an idea.”

And that’s how Felix finds himself holding both coffees as Sylvain rifles through his wallet. They’re walking through the mall attached to the hotel when Sylvain calls out, “Five hundred dollars?”

Felix almost spits his coffee on the ground. “What?” He thrusts Sylvain’s cup back at him and grabs his phone to log in to his bank account. 

_ $1082.49 Minden Jewelers _  
_ $1082.50 Ashe Ubert Photography _  
_ $622.44 Las Vegas Review-Journal _

His hangover returns with a vengeance. That’s more than he makes in a month! On top of rent and bills and car payments, he’s literally broke. He can’t even afford the coffees he’s holding. Its a wonder the charge went through. 

“Crap, looks like I paid for the wedding, too,” Sylvain groans. 

“Oh, yeah? Well I’m looking at a three thousand dollar credit card bill!” 

It hits Felix then and there: no matter how much a divorce costs, neither of them are going to be able to afford it. 

“Felix! There you are!” Leonie’s voice is not what Felix wants to hear right now. She and Mercedes are sitting at a table having pancakes, because of all the restaurants in the hotel, they had to pick this one. At least Annette and Lysithea aren’t there. 

“We were worried when you disappeared last night,” Mercedes says teasingly. “I hope you two didn’t get into any trouble.” 

“Well, actually—” Felix stomps Sylvain’s foot and he finishes with, “We have breakfast plans somewhere else.”

“Well, don’t let us get in the way of your reunion,” Mercedes goes on. “Who knows, you two might be walking down the aisle next!”

“Your friends are so funny, Felix.” Sylvain laughs too loudly. flashing his ring on purpose as he waves goodbye. Felix has no choice but to grab his hand and drag him away. 

“I’ll see you later for dinner,” he mutters, not even sure his friends can hear him. When they’re definitely out of earshot, Sylvain turns to him.

“You’re not going to tell them?”

“That I made a colossal drunken mistake we can’t afford to undo? Absolutely not,” Felix snaps. “Do you think the jewelry store will take returns?” 

Sylvain shows Felix the receipt.  _ ALL SALES FINAL  _ appears in bold letters no less than three times, each one a dagger in Felix’s gut. 

“So not only are we stuck together, we’re stuck with these rings?” he growls. “Whatever. There are a million pawn shops in this hellhole. Probably some right here in the mall.”

“You want to pawn the ring I gave you?” Sylvain actually sounds offended, but before Felix can point out that they don’t even remember exchanging them, Sylvain explains: “They’ll only give us a fraction of what it’s worth.”

He has a point. Not that Felix has ever pawned anything before. Sylvain probably has. “Whatever,” Felix mutters. “Let’s just meet this Ashe guy and get it over with.”

Because the universe has it out for him, Dimitri texts Felix the moment they get to the restaurant. 

_ Is there something you want to tell me? _

Felix’s blood runs cold. There’s no way he knows, right?

“There’s the happy couple!” Ashe greets them. Felix looks up to see familiar silvery hair and plentiful freckles. That’s a relief. At least Felix wasn't completely out of it last night. Ashe and Sylvain exchange phones and pleasantries, then Ashe laughs and says, “Let me guess. You want to put brunch on Instagram, too?”

That cold blood drains to Felix’s feet. “What do you mean _too?_ ”

“You don’t remember?” Ashe tilts his head in confusion. “You live-streamed the wedding on Sylvain’s Instagram.” 

Oh, fuck. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will all the chapter titles come from Katy Perry songs? Only time will tell.
> 
> Apologies, I had to deleted a line from the first chapter to change Ashe and Dedue’s roles in this chapter. 
> 
> My head is all over the place right now but I hope you enjoyed the update.


End file.
